


To the Sky

by partywitharichzombie



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie
Summary: The mind-numbing ache still recurrent, the wound seemingly fresh as ever. All of a sudden you’d been hit by an overwhelming urge to come up for air, although you’d learned to live without for oh so long.





	To the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Written in relative haste as my way to navigate the tangle of emotions from the events that transpired last weekend. Content warning for death, grief, mourning.

You hadn't seen the footage. You'd refused to. Not even an inkling of curiosity had sparked within you when the news of the incident had reached your ears. Instead you'd bowed your head, and for the first time in years and years, you'd prayed. To any divine being who'd be willing to listen, to whom it may concern, little had it mattered to you.

A couple of hours or so had passed by, then. Your fingers would've hovered several times over the blue bird-shaped icon displayed on the screen before you already, yet your resolve hadn't faltered, somehow. You’d avoided whispers in the wind, unfounded rumors akin. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Hoping, praying, silently pleading.

Then came the call. And so you'd let your tears fall.

You thought you'd pressed the lines of his smile and the melody of his laughter into your mind like seal stamp upon wax and record molds upon molten vinyl. You’d wished the human brain had been designed to work akin to photosensitive emulsion encased in cellulose nitrate, as film strips had been manufactured way back when. It had freezed moments in time as it had transpired: Vivid, true to life, no single detail amiss. The few characteristics the human mind and film stocks had shared, if anything at all? Their being highly perishable, and their being fragile.

You'd tried recalling the first time your paths crossed: How old had you been back then? Eight, nine? He'd greeted Pierre first before introducing himself to you — they'd known each other from school prior. You'd only heard of him from your coach then, and only in the context of being a potential rival on your quest to the pinnacle of motorsport:  _ He's one of the best in the category, Charles. _ And so he'd been — he'd won the French Cup that very year.

You'd all become friends with such ease, as children do. Your hearts had been aflame with the same passion, you'd all shared the same dream, and you'd been working towards the same goal, afterall.

Of the three of you (well, four, plus Esteban), he'd been closest to Pierre, having been tutored together while competing in karting championships all across Europe at the same time. They'd even shared a flat once they’d moved out of home, and whenever you'd been able to, you'd visit. You never had to worry about overstaying their welcome — one summer way back then, you'd practically been the third tennant.

You'd found your brothers. Not of blood, but of something as strong a bond.

You couldn't remember how many times you'd seen Pierre rub his face in exasperation or call him whatever names that'd come to his mind whenever he had failed to empty the dishwasher, skipped his turn scrubbing the bathroom, or used up the carton of milk he'd bought only the day before. (He'd liked his milk with a tinge of coffee and not vice-versa, and an alarming amount of sugar to top.) You wished you'd been able to pinpoint an exact number, somehow, for the annoyance in those blue eyes had amused you and him both. He'd then offer Pierre his apology by whipping up dinner. His cooking had been so good, it'd made his then-roommate forget what he had been mad about in the first place, only to be reminded the moment he'd set foot in their too-cramped kitchen again.

You also couldn't remember how many circuits you'd raced on, how many times you'd bumped into each other on track, how many times he'd overtaken you and you him, how many times you’d forced his kart to skid and slide and lose unnecessary time, how many laps you'd come toe to toe against each other. Perhaps the word 'remember' had never been fitting — how could you possibly recall something you were never truly aware of? Still, you wished you’d known the exact number, still, you wished you’d been able to summon the memories at will.

You'd contemplated radio silence as you'd tried to tame the turmoil within you, but then you'd realized: In any way you could, it'd be your duty to etch even an iota of him in people's minds. So you'd gone through your own phone first and come empty-handed, before scouring the world wide web, seeking for crumbs of memories made frozen in pixels. There it'd been, an image of you and him — in your race suits, your arm over his shoulders. Your shy smiles had reflected the awkwardness of youth, yet carefree, radiant all the same. Oblivious of the cataclysm that would one day befall. So you'd shared it with the world.

Then your mind had wandered to the people you'd lost several years prior. The mind-numbing ache still recurrent, the wound seemingly fresh as ever. All of a sudden you’d been hit by an overwhelming urge to come up for air, although you’d learned to live without for oh so long.

But you'd managed to carry on with your grief, you'd forged the void of their absence into your strength. And so you'd fought to honor them the only way you knew how to: By chasing time on board an engineering marvel pieced together from metal alloys and carbon composites, round and round the seven kilometer of tarmac stretched before you. You'd tried your very best to balance throttle and braking, hit every apex with precision, shave off seconds where you’d been able to, hold off the silver car looming ever so closer on your sideview mirrors.

When you'd seen the chequered flag being waved before you, somehow your feelings had told you that you'd not only won it for them — you'd won  _ with  _ them.

And so, again, tears had stung your eyes once your car had reached parc fermé. This time, you'd smiled, and you'd known that they'd been smiling back down at you, too.

"You'll win this for him," you'd been told when your hand had clasped the one Pierre had offered you at the drivers' parade. To you, it had neither been a request nor demand, and it hadn't been meant as a wish either. The conviction in his voice, the unfaltering firmness — he'd spoken it as if he'd been gifted with the power of divination, as if he had known for sure even then. If destiny was indeed foreordained, then every jigsaw piece would fall into place just as intended, would it not?

Was it, though? Foreordained? Is fate really deterministic that way, sure as the flow of time, absolute like the laws of the universe? You'd never know for sure. No one would. But for the moment being, it hardly mattered. You were currently standing at the top step of the podium of Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, a sea of red cheering for you as far as your eyes could see.

So you held a finger up to the sky as soon as you hoisted the silverware that had been handed to you a few hammering heartbeats prior.

_ This one's for you, Tonio. _

Between the droning noise of the crowd, the music over the PA, and the breeze of the wind, you could swear you’d heard an oh so very faint answer:  _ Thank you, Charles. I’m proud of you. _

**Author's Note:**

> A line was adapted from the song Hereafter by Architects. (_Now the oceans have drained out / Can I come up for air? / 'Cause I've been learning to live without._)
> 
> Fare thee well and may your soul be at ease, Champ.


End file.
